heavy formation of the lower face. The general expression,
moreover, of a countenance which, closely analysed, could
not be termed beautiful, marked a mind at once ardent in
its conceptions, and steady and resolute in its silent
accomplishments of purpose. She was of the middle height.

Such was the person of Madeline de Haldimar; but attractive,
or rather winning, as were her womanly attributes, her
principal power lay in her voice,--the beauty, nay, the
voluptuousness of which nothing could surpass. It was
impossible to listen to the slow, full, rich, deep, and
melodious tones that fell trembling from her lips upon
the ear, and not feel, aye shudder, under all their
fascination on the soul. In such a voice might the
Madonna of Raphael have been supposed to offer up her
supplications from the gloomy precincts of the cloister.
No wonder that Frederick de Haldimar loved her, and loved
her with all the intense devotedness of his own glowing
heart. His cousin was to him a divinity whom he worshipped
in the innermost recesses of his being; and his, in
return, was the only ear in which the accents of that
almost superhuman voice had breathed the thrilling
confession of an attachment, which its very tones announced
could be deep and imperishable as the soul in which it
had taken root. Often in the hours that preceded the
period when they were to have been united heart and mind
and thought in one common destiny, would he start from
her side, his brain whirling with very intoxication, and
then obeying another wild impulse, rush once more into
her embrace; and clasping his beloved Madeline to his